


As The World Falls Down

by graha_appreciator



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, F/M, Sexual Tension, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 21:15:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20699960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graha_appreciator/pseuds/graha_appreciator
Summary: Emet-Selch tries the F!Miqo’te!WoL's patience by hanging out uninvited in her inn room. Tension ensues. Limits are broken. I won't say more here but it gets pretty steamy in later chapters. Oh, and the title has very little to do with what I planned out for this story, it's rather that the lyrics of the titular song remind me of Emet/WoL's relationship (Labyrinth FTW!). I'd like to dedicate this fic to Lady Ramora D'aubigne, whose talented writing continues to inspire me to play around with Emet (and G'raha!) :)





	As The World Falls Down

You had long since experienced disillusionment. Disillusionment from the idea that the being known to you as Emet-Selch was something unfathomable: all-powerful, invulnerable—your original impression of his kind, the Ascians. (He is none of those things he cultivates an air of.)

Ascians can be predictable, out-maneuvered, killed. Just like any other foe. The thing that sets them apart—sets Emet-Selch apart—is his baffling persistence to observe and interact with you. His claim that he is sizing you up as a potential ally somehow strikes you as truth, yet you also do not doubt that he will forsake you in an instant should you prove unworthy.

However, there has to be something beyond that inspiring his odd behaviour, you've come to surmise. The Ascians' entire _raison d'être_ is to bring about the Great Rejoining—you know that. And from what you've experienced, individual Ascians seem to pursue this aim in rather different ways. Still, you fail to see how Emet-Selch's not infrequent invasions of your inn room at the Pendants further his known goals in any way.

Sometimes he is in a flippant mood and humours your curiosity, although his incomplete answers usually give rise to many more questions—which only frustrates you. Certainly he enjoys that. For the most part, however, he doesn't speak much at all. He is just suddenly there: the matanga in the room you wish you could ignore. Sitting in your armchair when you turn around, startling the shit out of you. Standing by your bookshelves, rifling through a tome you borrowed from the Cabinet (surely he cannot read that fast) and making you uncomfortable as you think about how long he could have been there without your realising.

But he doesn't need to say a word to break your focus completely. It doesn't matter what you were doing. Whenever he shows up the only thing occupying your mind is his presence in the room. That dense treatise you were engrossed in not a moment before might as well be a blank page you are pretending to be interested in. That midnight snack you were about to enjoy? You won't remember if it tasted of anything.

The very first evening Emet-Selch darkened your doorway, it was for but a few moments. Ardbert was already present, though the two of you were not engaged in conversation at the time. He was staring out the open window in that wistful manner you had come to expect of him; you were pottering around the room tidying away books and scrolls when the uninvited Ascian materialized just inside the door. You managed to suppress a squeak of surprise, which would have been positively mortifying, but he did cause you to drop a few scrolls. Emet-Selch crossed him arms and eyeballed your quarters superciliously, apparently unable to see the warrior-spirit standing right in front of him. Then, he looked your way for a brief moment before snapping his white-gloved fingers and dematerializing again, leaving you at a loss for what just happened.

Because Ardbert prefers to seek you out when you're alone, you've been seeing less of him lately, which is a shame. If Ardbert's presence is like a soothing balm at the end of a hard-won day, Emet-Selch is insidious like stinging nettles or poison ivy rash. You sigh irritably. It's hard to find time to rest as it is and, unfortunately for you, tonight is one of those "talkative" evenings.

"Come now, wherefore that sigh? Surely you do not weary of my company. Carrying on as you do, I might begin to believe I am unwelcome."

_Sarcastic bastard. When was he ever welcomed?_

"You know, I have plans for this evening. Pleasant ones, which—needless to say—don't involve any Ascians."

"Pleasant? I wonder what constitutes a pleasant evening for you. Don't tell me—slaughtering a few dozen innocent sin eaters, mayhap? Running trivial errands for any dullard who petitions your aid? That's all you seem to do most days, I don't see why your evening plans would be much different."

"What would you know about it?" You snap at him. "You know nothing about my private life."

"Oh please, you don't have one."

"And what is that supposed to mean? Are you watching me all the time or something?" Gods, you hope not. "Not that it's true!"

"Hmm... I'm afraid I do have more pressing matters than observing such minutiae as your being unable to decide which shade of brown to use for your new grimoire."

"...That sounds an awful lot like you're stalking me."

It's his turn to sigh (dramatically, of course), before helping himself to an apple from your fruit bowl. "Don't flatter yourself, my dear. You're not that interesting."

You shut your eyes in exasperation as you massage the headache throbbing in your temple. Time to be direct.

"Will you please leave?"

"My my, so eager to be rid of me tonight. If I didn't know better, I might suspect some kind of rendezvous was in the cards." He takes an obnoxious bite of apple.

"You don't know better and—" You snatch the apple from his gloved hand and set it firmly on the table "—I fail to see how what I do in my downtime is any of your concern."

Before he showed up, you were in fact looking forward to a rejuvenating bath. You had requested a special Lakeland salt mix from Spagyrics—the arrival of which is now heralded by a timely knock on wood.

Your eyes snap to meet each other's. Suddenly he looks more awake than usual, his interest piqued.

"Oh? I suppose that'll be one of your lovers now, come to whisk you away for a night of debauchery."

"Just a moment!" You respond to the knocker, glowering at the Ascian occupying your dining area, whom you do not intend to let anyone see. Or hear.

You open the heavy oak door just wide enough to slip out, closing it again behind you.

It was Fae-Hann: the miqo'te alchemist had come to deliver your request personally. He retreats a little to maintain a polite distance, since your back is flush against the closed door.

"Good evening! Ah—this is for you—as requested." He holds out a weighty-looking pouch tied with a drawstring. "I mixed it up myself. I hope there's enough in there for your needs, but if not, please do not hesitate to come by again and let us know."

Feeling flustered from the situation inside your quarters, you mumble a hasty thank you and assure him that it's more than sufficient.

You meet his eyes and he smiles warmly at you. The same eyes then glance down, bringing your attention to the bag that still rests in his proferred hands.

"Oh—yes..." you quickly fumble to relieve him of it.

"Well, enjoy your bath." He gives a perfunctory nod and turns to leave. You nod vaguely in return, or at least you think you did. You don't dare reopen the door until he's turned the corner, so you simply stand there watching him depart like some kind of weirdo.

You let go of a breath you didn't know you were holding and reluctantly reenter your room. Your vain hope of finding it devoid of Ascians is dashed immediately.

"A bath? Wild. Don't hold back on my account." He says, before crunching down on the infernal apple.

_How dare he..._

You place the package on the nearest available surface, where it's already forgotten. Your cheeks are burning, your head is pounding and your patience is all but spent. To the Void with it.

"Speaking of private lives," you manage breezily, "how long has it been since you last had intercourse?"

Emet-Selch raises a single, uniquely-shaped eyebrow at you as he chews on his morsel. There is no reaction in the rest of his face. If your very casual question caught him off-guard, he doesn't let on.

You clarify: "I don't just mean physical. _Intellectual_ intercourse. Emotional."

A languid blink. Another. You continue, taking advantage of the fact that his mouth is still occupied.

"Granted, the legacy you sired in Garlemald puts a timestamp on one of them. But I very much doubt that fulfilled you in any way. It was a means to an end. I doubt that you've deigned to share yourself with a living soul in aeons."

He gulps. "Share... myself? Is there a point to this imbecilic analysis?" He takes care to sound bored like always, but you can sense his underlying indignation. A taste of his own medicine is no less than he deserves for plaguing you like this.

His expression is an enigma. Glowing eyes bore into you, heavy-lidded and unperturbed. This way he is looking at you makes you feel—for lack of a better word—exposed. Not that the look is lascivious. More like... penetrating.

As intimidated as you feel, you can't not stare back. You cannot show any fear.

"Since we're on this topic, do you feel alive, Emet-Selch?" You don't bother hiding the contempt in your voice. "Which of us is truly _living_, I ask you? You who walk the stars alone, sleeping through ageless days of so much inconsequence—waiting in vain for the fruition of your sole purpose; or is it my kind? Fighting for every last breath of our imperfect, fleeting lives, knowing full well we will never taste of the fruits we have planted—yet do we plant them anyway?" Fairly trembling with conviction, you take a step back from the table to collect yourself. _Thank you for your wisdom, Feo Ul._

Silence ensues. He allows it to go on just long enough to become really awkward, before delivering a hearty slow clap.

"Hear, hear. Rousing rhetoric, to be sure," his voice dripping with scorn. "Did you rehearse that? I was almost moved. Saddened, in truth. By its futility." Leaning forward, he plants one elbow on the table and thereupon props up his chin.

"—If it's futile it's only because you are tempered," you mutter dismissively, shunning him and speaking to the room, "Your will is not your own! There can be no reasoning with such a being as you."

You stomp away toward your dressing area, wanting to believe you had the last word. You rest your palms on the dressing table, hunched over in a sulk. Your back turned to the unwelcome guest, you glare down at the wooden surface without seeing it. Your sole focus is on willing _him_ away. Then.

"You..." he hisses the word through gritted teeth. A chill blossoms up your spine. You whirl around to look at him. He has risen to his feet. A flash of unforeseen anger enlivens his face, his eyes dart madly around. "You... _presume_ to understand me?" He barks out a mirthless laugh. "Incomplete, deplorable soul that you are! Your limited senses perceive nothing, you _understand_ nothing. Your kind is born, lives, and dies all in the same dark cave, never able to leave it your entire wretched life, and in it you are content! Never glimpsing nor conceiving of the beauty of true reality! A contemptible existence." He all but spits these last sentences, riled up beyond your expectations. You must have touched a nerve.

Utterly undeterred—in fact spurred on by his visceral reaction—you reply in derision, "How starved for philosophical discourse you must be, to grace a lesser being such as me with the gift of this revelation. Why is it then that you honor me so very _regularly_ with your presence?"

At this, he visibly checks himself. His scowl softens and the interminable slouch returns.

"Oh you know, _hero_," that glib tone yet belying his bitterness, "When the choice one is faced with through the course of history is that of inferior company—" he turns over one hand, follow by the other "—or no company, occasionally the former becomes preferable. Mortals do have their moments, I'll admit. It breaks up the monotony." His lips curve into a suggestive smirk, though it does not reach his eyes.

You take a moment to mull over your next move. "Inferior company, you say?" You take a few measured steps in his direction. "It is passing strange that you keep insisting on your dominance in all things and affecting this tiresome aloofness. If you are the all-powerful one and I am the wretch, you would not be here again, seeking out my inferior company. It is only logical."

Hooded eyes smoulder dangerously in the candlelight. You know you are playing with fire, but you heed not their unspoken warning, giving him no space for some slick rejoinder. You press the advance, closing in on him.

"Of course it goes without saying that if you wanted to, you could wreak untold destruction on this fragile world that I strive to save—murder everyone I hold dear." You enunciate for effect, lowering your voice the closer you draw near. The next step brings you within range of his personal space. "Punish me for my audacity, however you see fit." You glare defiantly in the face of his scrutiny. His wry mouth tightens in the ensuing pause, which stretches out longer than you intended—as if standing this close has a hypnotic effect. _A snake and its charmer. But which is which?_

You break away from his gaze and give your head a shake, retreating from his vicinity. "But in so doing, you would achieve naught more than petty spite, like an overgrown child throwing away his toys after they have displeased him. So, in that sense, what use is your unfathomable power if it cannot bring you even a modicum of peace? If you too are fettered by fate and the inexorable path to your goals, just as we are?"

Perfect white teeth reveal themselves in a grimace, demonstrating the truth in your words.

(You can hardly believe how well this is going—that you have been able to speak so brazenly and he hasn't even tried to kill you yet. Indeed he is unlike any foe you've encountered, other Ascians included. As such, he must be fought in a different way. But you're adapting. You've thrown him off-balance; he is not so untouchable as he would have you believe.)

"There. Another honest reaction breaks through the façade."

"What façade?" He snarls, smoothing a hand over the white streak in his hair. His composure looks to be well and truly frayed.

You scoff. "Has your pride grown so great over the ages, that you must delude even yourself?"

Emet-Selch inhales a long, protracted breath as he brings a hand up to cover half his face in that idiosyncratic fashion you've seen him do before. A half-ring of luminous gold peers through graceful fingers. "I delude no one," he says wearily. "I have spoken nothing but honest truth since our very first meeting." Now he shrugs, arms spread wide and palms held aloft. "If you are unable to recognise that, it is your failing, not mine." He shakes his head, _tsk_-ing under his breath.

You allow him a moment to simmer down before poking the bear again. Something tells you this is about to get interesting.

"I am rather led to think..." You pause to wet your lips, your voice nearly wavering from the energy coursing through you. But you must not falter now. You must proceed with calm conviction, or not at all.

"You have no power over me."

Slowly, ever so slowly at first, his lips pull back into a mockery of a smile, refined features tensing and twisting until his once-handsome visage is contorted in frightening aspect. Passion is carved into his marble face, a masterwork sculpture. You've done it now. You've incited the wrath of Emet-Selch, knowingly and willingly. _Play stupid games, win stupid prizes._

His eyes blaze molten gold, their flames licking at your confidence. In an instant you feel as weak and fragile as you in fact are, painfully reminded of your own mortality. You try to stand firm, locked in to his death-stare as he strides malevolently towards you.

What you do next surprises even yourself.

Instead of your normal reflex to assume a defensive stance, you open your arms wide to receive him—offering up the promise of your embrace.

He stops dead in his tracks, just beyond your reach.

"I will not be pitied by you!" His voice is a strangled cry. He raises a gloved hand—_to strike?_—but whatever onslaught he may have intended evaporates in a flurry of dark aether as does his physical form. He is gone.

Taking stock of what just happened, you notice only now that you are shaking. Your heart is pounding in the jail of your chest. Yet, remarkably, the feeling that overwhelms you is not that of triumph. It is primal. Fear, yes, but... another type of excitement?

Deep breaths. Calm down. You survived, for now. Crumpling into a nearby chair, you realise how exhausted you are, your reckless courage spent. Though he is no longer in the room you feel his imprint in the air: a testament to his power.

As the tension dissipates, your mouth holds the shape of his name—title, really. So he said.

"Emet-Selch." You say aloud, trying to sound assertive.

The sound lingers in the emptiness. Nothing happens.

"Emet-Selch..."

Another moment passes. It's strange. Despite everything, it was never your intention to hurt him. A pang of regret chides you for taking matters too far. Who knew an Ascian's feelings could be hurt anyway? It seems absurd. You suppose this means they have more in common with mere mortals than you thought previously, at least in this respect. You only meant to challenge him as an equal, urge him to see a different perspective than the one he has clung to all this time.

..._Since time immemorial._ When you think about it that way, it does seem like an altogether pointless endeavour. "Set in one's ways" must be quite an understatement in his case.

Yet you tried anyway. _Why?_ You ponder this awhile as your fight or flight impulse fades. You come to the conclusion that part of you must believe he can be saved. And you were never one to give up on a worthy cause, no matter how doomed it appeared to be. It's what you do.

You try one more time, nothing to lose. "Emet-Selch," you intone softly this time, tenderly. "I know you hear me." _Forgive me._

Though you are at last alone (_that's what you wanted, remember?_), you are far too rattled and self-conscious to take that bath after all—for all you know he could still be watching you from the shadows. So you resign yourself to an early night. Exhausted though you are, you will not find sleep: for, cocooned in the comfort of your lonely bed, a singular waking thought persists.

..._Will you not come back_?

**Author's Note:**

> I happened to read the last (Emet-Selch-focused) "Tale From the Shadows" today, after this fic chapter was already written. It's soooo good and incidentally a bit relevant to my fic, which was a nice surprise. If you didn't read it already, please go do that! https://na.finalfantasyxiv.com/lodestone/special/tales_from_the_shadows/sidestory_04/
> 
> Also, check out Lady Ramora's tumblr for more Emet-Selch goodness: https://ladyramora.tumblr.com/
> 
> Yeah, my WoL's personality is kinda insufferable but I think (hope) their interplay makes for an interesting dynamic.
> 
> Anyways, more chapters for this story are already in progress :)


End file.
